


The Third Day

by Vamillepudding



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, season 4 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-15 01:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18488236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: Alfie dies on a Friday. By Saturday, news has reached the whole of Margate; by Sunday, rumours have spread to London and Birmingham.On Monday, Tommy Shelby receives a telegram.





	The Third Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiveaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveaces/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this !

_A brief account of Monday_

Alfie dies on a Friday. 

By Saturday, news has reached the whole of Margate; by Sunday, rumours have spread to London and Birmingham. 

On Monday, Tommy Shelby receives a telegram. 

This is where the story could end, had everything gone the way it should. If life worked in a straight line, Tommy would have read the telegram, made a note in one of his books, and moved on. Luckily, life does not work in a straight line, and does indeed have a sense of narration. 

Let us take a closer look at Monday’s events. 

Richie, a boy who might be eleven or twelve or thirteen (no one knows, not even his mother), is now on his second day of the job. Mr Arthur Shelby has employed him, which is to say that he told him to “Just show up in the morning, lad, I reckon Tom will find you something to do.”

Richie, thankful for the work, did exactly as Mr Arthur Shelby said, and Mr Thomas Shelby (OBE), when he came back from his trip, did as predicted, and put Richie in charge of making coffee, feeding the dog, and sorting telegrams into Very Urgent, Urgent, Important and Irrelevant. 

Richie makes coffee, and feeds the dog, and sorts the telegrams. The latter isn’t as hard as Mr Thomas Shelby made it sound. The death threats go on the Very Urgent pile, information on future meetings and unpaid bills go on the Urgent pile, anything to do with charity work and your regular freeloaders asking for money goes to the Important pile, and anything else is sorted as Irrelevant. The system has worked so far, and everyone is pleased. 

So when a telegram without a sender and with only one line that makes no sense arrives, it’s not even a question. Richie puts the telegram to the other telegrams on the Irrelevant pile, which is to say, he puts it in the bin, and then makes more coffee. 

The telegram, now lost forever, reads as follows: 

_Matthew 17:23_

The rest, as they say, is history.

**

_The lament of an older brother_

It’s not easy, being Tommy’s brother. Arthur knows this intimately. It wasn’t easy when they were lads, and Tommy would cheat at every fucking game they ever played, and then pretend like he didn’t. That used to drive Arthur mad, until he grew older and realised that it’s not so bad. If his little brother could cheat his way out of Snakes & Ladders, he’d do alright later in life. 

It wasn’t easy when they were teenagers, either. Only two years apart in age meant that every time Arthur set his eyes on a pretty bird, she was sure to have already spotted his younger brother – more handsome, and smarter, too. His teenage years, Arthur remembers only too well, were mostly spent with blue balls being dead jealous of Tommy. 

Then came the war, and well, that changed all of them, didn’t it? None of them left those tunnels same as before. There was a new kind of fragility to Tommy afterwards- a word Arthur never thought he’d have to associate with his brother.

Of course, there was a new kind of fragility to _all_ of them then, so that isn’t saying much. 

Only – they came back from it. Right? They did. It took years, hundreds of nightmare-induced nights and the burning need to consume as much alcohol as possible to just forget. But they came back from it, and that’s what matters. 

Arthur doesn’t know what did it for him – Linda had something to do with it, for sure, but mostly he thinks it was just time. What he does know, however, is the first moment he saw a glimpse of the old Tommy again, the one who would break into their father’s supply of booze in the middle of the night when they were 10 and 12, just to see what the fuss was about. Arthur had assumed that Tommy had been left in France – but then, Tommy left one day, just walked out of the hospital and went on a boat and came back a week later with a new (old) look in his eyes. 

That’s, what, four years ago now? Must be, just about. Point is, that was the beginning of the end, in Arthur’s opinion.  
It’s not easy, being Tommy’s brother. It means making sacrifices – with board games, with girls, with life. And sometimes it means getting nearly shot and then arrested because of his brother’s obnoxious boyfriend. But that’s alright.

Arthur reckons it’s part of the whole sibling experience – Lord knows it could be worse. Alfie Solomons could have been a commie, and then, where would they be, eh? 

So no, Arthur never approved, but he also didn’t go to Camden Town to kill Solomons, either, as he might have wanted to do once with Freddie Thorne, so on a whole, it’s really rather a victory. (Then again, Tommy can’t get knocked up, so maybe that’s part of it.) 

He thinks he even might have come around eventually. In a few years. Or a decade. 

But then Solomons died. And that is the one thing Arthur can never forgive. Because now, Tommy looks like he did straight after the war. Who knows what it will take this time to get him back? 

Part of Arthur is tempted so suggest a game of Snakes & Ladders. Maybe that would help.

**

_A proper dog’s name_

Tommy won’t stop petting the dog. At some point, Polly asked if he wanted her to ring up the doctor, to check if he has indeed gone braindead. Tommy just looked up slowly, as though in a trance, then blinked, then looked back at the dog and then left the room. 

Polly isn’t an idiot. She knows what happened in Margate. The facts are these: Tommy left. Two days later, they all heard that Alfie Solomons was found dead. On the same evening, Tommy returned home, now with a dog by his side. Tommy doesn’t like dogs, but he did like Alfie Solomons. 

She supposes it’s sort of nice of Tommy, to take the dog in, if you discount the fact that the only animals Tommy has ever cared for / knows anything about are horses. Polly would be afraid that Tommy would leave the dog in the stables over night, if she hadn’t caught him yesterday taking the dog into bed with him, and now she genuinely can’t tell which is worse. 

“What’s it called?” Finn asks now. Everyone in the office freezes, because until now, there had been a sort of unspoken understanding: Don’t bother Tommy, don’t get your head bitten off. This lack of survival instinct is precisely the reason why Polly protested against Finn taking charge. 

Tommy, now ruffling behind the dog’s ears from where he’s sitting on a desk not doing much of anything as far as Polly can tell, says, “Cyril.” He sounds mildly surprised at being addressed. 

“That’s not a proper dog name,” Finn says. Polly absently wonders why no one ever taught Finn when it’s better to keep silent; clearly they will need to rectify this. 

“It’s what the dog is called, so it’s a dog’s name,” Tommy says. Then he straightens, vacant expression clearing a little, like he’s just emerged from water. “I’m going out. Any volunteers for taking care of it?” By _it_ , he presumably means the dog. It is slightly worrying that Tommy, new dog owner, doesn’t even seem to know the gender. Or maybe he doesn’t care. 

No one says anything. Tommy repeats, “Any volunteers?”, now with the kind of steel in his voice that Polly recognises – the kind she’s taught him to use, so people will take him seriously. 

12 slightly shaking hands shoot up. Tommy randomly points at one of them and leaves. 

The dog tries to follow Tommy, but walks against the now-closed door and falls down. Then it gets up, and promptly tries again. 

Polly supposes she can sort of see Tommy and Cyril getting along.

**

_Catching up with the fam_

Tommy moved into Ada’s guest room a week ago, and hasn’t talked about moving out since. So far, every day has been roughly the same: Tommy will leave the house before she even wakes up, come back at some point during the late afternoon, and then they’ll hand Karl off to the babysitter and get drunk together.

It feels like old times: Daring each other to do shots, telling reminiscing childhood stories, laughing until they can’t breathe. Also like old times, there is always a point when Tommy gets all sad and melancholy, and looks like he will start crying any minute now. He never has, which Ada is grateful for. She’s had to deal with many things in her life, but doesn’t want to add ‘watching Tommy cry’ to the list. 

Today, Tommy interrupts her imitation of an old school teacher’s accent with “do you think I’m a bad person, Ada?”  
Ada thinks, _here we go_. She says, “I think anyone can be good if they want to be.” 

“That’s not what I asked,” Tommy says with the superior air of the very drunk. “Sometimes I think, I’ve done so many bad things, I can’t possibly be good.” 

“You founded a charity,” Ada says. Since this is the 7th exact same conversation they’ve now had seven nights in a row, her arguments are starting to sound a little stale. “You fought in the war, you’ve saved so many lives. Think of how many people owe their lives to you.” 

“I’ve killed,” Tommy says, like he’s not even hearing her. “I’ve tortured, and I- I did something I regret.” 

“Oh?” Ada says, because this is deviating from the usual script. Tommy nods, downs his glass, then stares at it with bloodshot eyes. He looks like he’s considering something. Eventually he says, “I shot a man the other day. He wasn’t a good man, either, but – we could have been bad men together.” 

Ada doesn’t reply, because she’s struck by the abrupt realisation that Tommy is trying to talk to her about _boys_. This is a new development, and she isn’t sure that she likes it. “He sounds nice,” she says, slowly, carefully, because what _can_ you say to this? 

Tommy nods again, like he agrees, and lays his head on the table. “I liked his beard,” he mutters, and falls asleep.

**

_99 Problems_

“I’m just saying that I don’t think this is the best course of action-“ Ada is saying, just as Tommy lets himself into her house and stops short at the sight of his whole family gathered in the living room. He looks from the family members, to the giant banner, to the table with an assortment of sweets and drinks on them, and then back to his family. Finally, he says, “what’s this?”

“It’s an intervention,” Linda says and smiles. Tommy stares at her, then turns around and walks back to the front door without a word. Arthur intercepts him before he can go outside, dragging him back in by his arm. “You’re going to sit down, and you’re going to listen,” he tells Tommy, whose face now has the exact same expression that Julias Caesar must have had when confronted with Brutus, once upon a time. 

Once Tommy is sat down forcefully on an armchair, he says, “Alright, let’s cut this short. Is this about the drinking?” Headshakes all around. Someone mutters, “it should have been.” 

“Is it about eating more?” Tommy continues. More headshakes. “Should I put in more time at the office? Less? Do you all want a raise? I’ll give you a raise. Or is this about Charlie? Because let me just tell you, right now, that I make sure to speak to my son at least once a week.” 

“It’s about Alfie Solomons,” Polly finally says sharply. That shuts Tommy up. The remaining Shelbys all exchange looks, a silent battle on who is to speak next. Arthur ends up drawing the short straw, so to speak. 

“We just think that, well, we’ve all killed people before, Tom-“ - At this, everyone shares a fond laugh, full of nostalgia and companionship – “- but maybe you’re taking this one a bit hard, eh?” Arthur lets out another chuckle and doesn’t meet Tommy’s eyes, presumably aware that right now, Tommy’s look could herald the start of the next ice age. 

“What we’re saying,” Polly continues, “is that we’d like you to get your fucking shit together.” 

There is a terrifying silence. Eventually Tommy says, “Well, what I’d like for all of you to do is to leave my house, but I assume we can’t have everything, eh?”

A beat. Then Ada says, “It’s my house.”

**

_A jew and a gypsy walk into a bar_

Tommy walks out of Ada’s house, and into the nearest pub. He orders a drink, and another one, and another one after that, just because the best things come in threes, and he is in need of all the bestest things in life right now. He says this to one of the other customers next to him at the bar.

He says, “I’m in need of all the bestest things in life right now.” It comes out as more of a gurgle-mumble-slur, but that’s okay. Nobody’s perfect, not even Tommy, even if Alfie used to tell him he came pretty fucking close. 

The thought of that makes his eyes water. The guy next to him asks uneasily if he’s alright. Tommy waves him off, only his arm won’t properly obey him, so he kind of sticks his hand in the man’s face. Wait. Is that Ollie? 

“It’s me,” Ollie says miserably. “He’s going to kill me for this, I just know it.”

“You’re at a bar,” Tommy tells him, because he thinks Ollie might have not noticed. “Thought you people aren’t allowed to drink.” 

“No, we are,” Ollie says. “Where are you getting this from? It’s really not at all accurate.” 

Tommy has to think about it. “Alfie,” he remembers suddenly, and now he wants to cry all over again. Which is clearly ridiculous. Tommy Shelby doesn’t break down in public places, he makes sure to do it all in the privacy of his own home. “Alfie told me that.”

“That bastard,” says Ollie. “He just doesn’t like to drink. Doesn’t like the taste, he says. What an asshole.” 

“Don’t call him that,” Tommy says defensively. He stands up, possibly to punch Ollie’s face, though he can’t remember why. Somehow his feet don’t work, an unforeseen difficulty. He stumbles, and almost falls over. Then Ollie’s hands are there, steadying him. “I don’t want to punch you anymore,” Tommy tells Ollie. 

“That’s nice,” Ollie says. On that note, everything fades to black.

**

_The long-awaited reunion_

Tommy wakes up in a strange hotel room with the worst hangover in existence. On the other side of  the bed sits Alfie Solomons, cross-legged, reading what appears to be on second glance a reference book on plumbing. 

Alfie looks up and says pleasantly, “I have to say that it is lovely to see you, truly, really lovely.” 

Tommy stares. Alfie adds, “Ollie dropped you off.” 

Tommy stares. Alfie, now with just the slightest bit of hesitation, says, “Fucking hell, if I’d known you’d look at me like that, I might have just let myself get shot for real, after all.” 

Tommy nods. And leaves. 

Alfie doesn’t try to stop him, but then, Tommy hadn’t thought he would.

**

_Going out with a bang_

Here’s the deal. They go back a long way, Tommy and him. And they’ve betrayed and nearly killed each other for a lot of that time, and fucked for most of it, too. It could have gone on forever. Maybe it would have – they’ll never know now. 

Alfie doesn’t have much to say for himself, except that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Lots of things did. Kissing Tommy, fucking him, stabbing him in the back for a bit of money, and then turning back the clock to do it all over again. 

It had to stop eventually. Even if Tommy doesn’t agree. They’re not young men anymore, and Alfie is just – over it, isn’t he, he’s over the whole thing, the whole fucking routine of it. He made a vow once: Never fall into any routine. And look how that ended up, eh? 

So he ended it. Knew _just_ ending it wouldn’t do much good, of course. It’s been four years, so he feels like he can take some credit for knowing what Tommy is like. Tommy would never have accepted a mere breakup. Alfie had to go out with a bang, and go out with a bang he did. 

No contact would have been the best course of action, of course, but Alfie couldn’t resist. He never could, not when it came to Tommy, and he still can’t. There’s just something – he can’t put his finger on it, except that once he looked into those eyes, it had been over. 

Perhaps he should have seen it coming. But he didn’t. 

He sent the telegram because he could. Never expected Tommy to answer, how would he have, but Alfie did kind of think it would put Tommy’s mind at ease. Just a little. Fucking idiotic romantic notion that turned out to be, didn’t it? 

And to top it all off, it turns out that Margate is just as lovely as he’d heard it was. But what no one had thought to inform him of, is that taking a vacation alone is as lonely as can be. Living a life alone – Alfie has tried it for a month, and he’s had just about enough of it. Plus, Tommy took the dog. Alfie really liked that dog. 

So perhaps it’s time to rectify past mistakes. If Tommy still wants him. If the clock can be turned back one last time.

**

_A very long week indeed_

The telegram arrives on Monday. Tommy doesn’t know what it says, because he tells Richie to burn it. Richie asks,

“What, you want me to just throw it away?” and Tommy replies, “no, I want you to fucking burn it.” 

It’s a pity fire alarms haven’t yet been invented, seeing as shortly after that conversation, everyone has to vacate the office for fear of dying of smoke inhalation. 

On Tuesday, another telegram arrives. That one is given to Cyril to chew up. Cyril just stares at the paper on Tommy’s outstretched hand for a bit, then goes back to sleep. Tommy crumples it up and throws it in the general direction of the next garbage can instead. It misses by a meter and hits Arthur on the head. Tommy snaps, “Pick that up”, and slams the door to his office closed behind him. 

Tommy doesn’t go into work on Wednesday. It’s the first proper vacation day he’s had since - 

since. 

He spends it lying on his bed looking aimlessly at the ceiling. When Finn comes in without knocking, it’s almost a relief, until his little brother tells him that a telegram came and it said it was urgent. 

Tommy tells himself he isn’t interested, and distracts Finn by lecturing him on the importance of knocks until his brother goes away. 

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday go by without any messages at all, because Tommy took the fax machine outside and put six bullets in it. On no more than eight different occasions is he tempted to go into the shop and buy a replacement, but he stops himself every time. It doesn’t matter. If people want to talk to him, they can bloody well come in person. 

On Sunday, Alfie walks into his office in person, and Tommy says, “Get the fuck out.”  


**

_One last time_

The worst part of it all, Tommy reflects, is that Alfie looks good. Healthy. Not at all like he was shot in the face five weeks ago. 

Tommy hates him, but he also kind of wants to hug him and then never let go. 

“I have to say,” Alfie says, sitting gingerly down on one of the chairs at Tommy’s desk, “I am very impressed by this work ethic. Making everyone come in on a Sunday – one could almost assume you don’t care about making friends, eh, Tommy?” 

“No,” Tommy says, voice already rising. He’s suddenly so angry he wants to kill someone. Possibly Alfie. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to, to come in here and make jokes and pretend like everyone didn’t think you’re dead for a month-“ 

“Actually, I’m rather sure they still think that, yeah? Here I was, walking in here, minding my own business, and your brother – good ol’ Arthur – looks at me like he’s seen a fucking ghost.” 

“Why’d you do it?” Tommy asks bluntly. Alfie laughs at that, like the answer is obvious, and just like that, Tommy is sorry he asked, unsure that he wants to hear this. 

“Thing is, Tommy, sometimes we all do things we regret, don’t we? You have, and I have, and this is just another thing in a very long line of things. Regret is a powerful motivator. Regret, for example, might make a man go to Birmingham, a city where everyone thinks he died. A risky move, for sure, but sometimes you have to take a gamble. But then, you know all about taking gambles.” 

Tommy isn’t overly familiar with the feeling of not understanding something. Right now, though, he feels like he just missed something crucial. “So – what’s the plan now? You want to get back into business?” 

“No,” Alfie says. “What I want is to go back to my nice house on Margate, and spend the next few months just sitting on the beach watching, I don’t know, fucking birds fly over the sea or whatever kind of nonsense other people get up to on the beach. And then I think I want to leave the country, and go somewhere else. France, maybe. Never did get around to looking at the sights when we was in the trenches.” 

Alfie is looking at Tommy, that weird intense stare he sometimes does, the one Tommy can never quite look away from. 

“So go,” Tommy says. “You’ve never asked for my permission before.” 

“I’m not asking now, am I? I’m telling you. But let me just say one thing before you send me off and we part ways. Will let me say one thing?”

“Alright.” Tommy knows he sounds wary, but then, he’s got good reason to. _Wary_ should be anyone’s default state of mind when dealing with Alfie. 

Alfie strokes his beard, a rare gesture of anxiety, and says slowly, “Travelling, I have found, can get incredibly lonesome. And since you took the dog, I’ve been rather – looking for someone to talk to, so to speak.” 

“You want the dog,” Tommy realises. “You came in here, you had the fucking guts to come into my office, to tell me you want your fucking dog back. Well, I’ve got bad news for you, Alfie. I’m keeping him.” 

“Oh, no. Keep the dog. Cyril gets attached easily, wouldn’t want to deprive him of your company.”  
There is something in the way Alfie says this – something Tommy can’t quite put his finger on. This is what Alfie sounds like when he’s about to close a business deal by pulling a gun on you.

“However,” Alfie says, and Tommy thinks, _there it is_. “since Cyril has now had not one, but two owners to whom he has most certainly formed an attachment, it would be a measure of absolute cruelty to now leave him with only one of them. The most sensible thing to do, really, would be for both owners to just accept their fate, and give Cyril the joy that is their shared company.” 

Tommy stares at Alfie. Alfie stares back. 

Tommy tries to come up with all the ways this is a really terrible idea, but finds that his mind is blank. All in all, this probably can’t be a worse plan than all the other plans he’s had in his life. It might even be one of the better ones. 

Perhaps that’s good enough.

**

_Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning_

_(Seven months later)_

They’re in Paris, and they are holding hands, and Alfie is saying how he really expected the Mona Lisa to be bigger, all while Cyril is traumatising some pigeons by chasing after them. Tommy takes it all in, and thinks about how tomorrow, they will go on top of the Eiffel Tower to see Paris from above, and how maybe the week after that, they will go to Rome or to Budapest or to Vienna. 

Eventually, they might go back to Birmingham. But not now, and not next week, and that’s what matters. 

“Any interesting thoughts?” Alfie asks, noticing his silence. 

Tommy says, “one or two”, and smiles as Alfie moves in to kiss his frown away.

 


End file.
